


Hitting One's Stride

by cadashdreams



Category: Dragon Age (Video Games), Dragon Age: Inquisition
Genre: Awkward Flirting, F/M, Flirting, Fluff, Horseback Riding, Minor Injuries
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-12-22
Updated: 2020-12-22
Packaged: 2021-03-11 04:29:21
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,307
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28249164
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/cadashdreams/pseuds/cadashdreams
Summary: Blackwall agrees to a horseback riding lesson with Inquisitor Cadash, and struggles to keep his composure throughout.
Relationships: Blackwall | Thom Rainer/Female Cadash
Kudos: 10





	Hitting One's Stride

The hold was coming together. When Blackwall wasn’t traveling Thedas with the Inquisitor, or sparring to keep his senses sharp, he was helping with repairs. Hammering wooden boards into scaffolding, building chairs and stools, and sprucing up the stables to make it comfortable for the horses. Master Dennet had arrived with his stock a few days ago. The horsemaster had been on standby at Redcliffe Farms, waiting for safer conditions to travel after the attack on Haven. The occupants of Skyhold are still reeling after the tremendous loss, but the strong, stone walls of the fortress provides some comfort. Tensions are easing, and the arrival of the horses signaled a vast improvement in moral.

Blackwall leaves his private quarters, a small room on the battlements, ready to have some breakfast and start the day. The wind blowing over the fortress walls, ever cold, is countered by the warm glow of the morning sun. 

The courtyard is bustling. Soldiers are doing warm ups in the make-shift training area, chatting and laughing with one another. Skyhold’s kitchen staff busily brings food out to everyone. The tavern, though it is still under repairs, is packed with hungry soldiers and scouts. Those who had slept in mill about outside the tavern, eating their rations whilst sitting on the ground or leaning against a wall. Blackwall would bypass the busy breakfast line and go directly to the kitchens for his first meal of the day. A perk, he supposes, for being close to the Inquisitor, though he felt a twinge of guilt for his luxury while others had to wait.

He descends the cracked stone steps towards the stables, walking by the tented barracks and shop stalls. The merchants greet him as they set out their wares marked for sale. He gives them a nod in response and continues to the kitchen’s back entrance, adjacent to the stables. The wind carries the faint, sweet smell of hay. A horse snorts, impatiently stamping its hooves in a stall, no doubt having scarfed down its grain and wanting more.

The pleasant scent of cooking meat, complimented by sizzling fat and herbs, fills his nostrils as he pushes the door open. The cook, a cheery elven woman with greying hair covered by a kerchief, greets him briefly, then turns her focus back to the food she’s cooking. He quickly makes his plate of breakfast sausage and bread, careful not to get in the cook’s way, and thanks her. He plucks two apples from a basket on the counter before leaving.

Master Dennet is outside the stables with a large grey mare tied to a hitching post, removing the grime from her hooves with a metal pick. 

“Morning, Master Dennet,” Blackwall says to the man. Dennet lifts his head and lets the horse drop her hoof back to the ground.

“Good morning, Warden Blackwall.”

“How are the mounts faring?”

“They’ve adjusted well, all things considered. They’re about ready for traveling. Needed some rest after our journey through the mountains.”

“I’ll lend you a hand, after I’ve finished this,” Blackwall says, lifting his plate.

“Take your time,” Dennet responds. The horsemaster turns his attention back to the mare, giving it a pat on the shoulder.

Blackwall walks into the barn, dimly lit by the sunlight cutting through the open doors and window above the loft. He eats his meal standing up at his workbench, taking gulps of water from his canteen between bites. He clears his plate quickly, using the last few bites of bread to sop up the fatty remnants of sausage grease. As he turns, empty plate in hand to return to the kitchen, he sees Melie Cadash, the Inquisitor and Herald of Andraste, leaning against a horse stall, back turned to him. She is making conversation with Dennet, though he can’t make out what they are saying. He sets the plate down on the workbench behind him.

It still feels too forth-coming to approach the Inquisitor without prompt. She had been very busy, ensuring Skyhold was secure and up to code, all while planning their strategy for the looming siege of Adamant Fortress. Blackwall rarely initiated their conversations, unless they were traveling together. He thought it best to keep his distance from everyone else once they were back at Skyhold. Still, when the Inquisitor was away, as she had been this week, he missed her company. 

In the stall beside the Inquisitor, a black horse raises his head, his ears swiveling back in annoyance. She is looking the other direction, unaware of the beast preparing to dole out a swift bite. 

“Inquisitor, careful!” Blackwall shouts. Lady Cadash turns on her heel to look in his direction, confused. Her back is to the stall now. The horse seizes the opportunity, drops his muzzle over the stall door, and bites down on her shoulder. 

“Ow!” She cries out in surprise. Blackwall’s hand flies to his mouth to stifle a laugh. Master Dennet’s craggy chuckling is heard outside. 

“Little asshole!” She growls, glaring at the horse as he retreats behind the stall door. More laughter from Dennet. Blackwall jogs to the Inquisitor’s side.

“Are you alright, Inquisitor?” Blackwall asks, still fighting a smile.

“Yes, I’m fine,” she says, massaging her shoulder.

“Yeah, you’ve got to be careful with that one. He’s a good horse, Inquisition, just defensive,” says Dennet.

“Yeah, that’s one word for it,” she mutters. Blackwall, without thinking, starts to gently rub her back. Suddenly realizing what he had done, he tries to play it off as if he were dusting dirt from her coat. Smooth, he thinks to himself, folding his arms to his chest.

She glances up at him, their eyes meeting, and bursts into laughter.

“Maker, figures that would be the thing to take me out. A horse.”

“You’ll live, Inquisition. May have a bruise though,” Dennet says with a final chuckle, turning back to the grey mare.

The Inquisitor takes a few steps back, leaning onto a support post parallel to the stalls. She taps the heel of a boot on the ground, knocking some dried mud off of it. She usually keeps her hair pulled back, either in a tight braid or a frayed bun. Today, she wears it down and tucked behind her ears, neatly parted in the middle, hiding her close-cropped undercut. The sun’s light brings out the warm, red tones in her dark chestnut hair, and the faint smattering of freckles on her nose and cheeks. Around her neck is a pendant, a white quartz skull, twinkling with some sort of enchantment. A gift from Dorian, perhaps? The Inquisitor is not the type of woman who wore jewelry. Her eyes linger on Blackwall before she looks back down at her muddy boots.

“Did you need anything from me, Inquisitor?” Blackwall asks, stepping away from the stalls to avoid any more bites.

“I just wanted to see how you were,” she says. “And I haven’t been down here to see our mounts yet.”

“Well, that one has made quite the first impression,” Blackwall says with a smirk. 

“It’s okay. I was in his space.” She looks up at the horse that had bitten her. “No hard feelings.”

“He’d forgive you for an apple,” Dennet pipes in. Blackwall could’ve sworn the old man looks at him as he says this, giving a nod towards the barn. 

“Of course,” she says. “Treats. The easiest way to earn a beast's respect.”

“I have an apple at my bench, my Lady. Just a moment.”

Blackwall steps back into the barn and strides over to his workbench. He grabs one of the apples, red and shiny like a ruby, and brings it to the Inquisitor.

“Here,” he says, holding the apple out to her. She takes it in her small hand and slowly approaches the horse, who is facing the back corner of his stall.

“Lay your palm flat, my Lady,” Blackwall cautions. “You don’t want him to bite your fingers.”

“Good call,” she says, stretching out her left hand. The mark must be quiet today, just barely burning, like a green ember. The Inquisitor sets the apple in the curve of her palm, clicking her tongue to get the horse’s attention. The horse’s ears perk, and he turns to look at her, unsure at first, until he spots the apple. He extends his neck over the stall, sniffing the air. The Inquisitor lifts her hand until it is just under his nose. The horse eagerly bites into the apple with a crunch, licking her hand, which makes her scrunch her nose and laugh. Blackwall feels his heart swell at the sound.

The horse lifts his head, munching contently. Lady Cadash reaches up and pats his neck. 

“I like him,” she concludes. “Do you know if he has a name?”

“That one, I think, Dennet calls Shadow.”

“Not very original,” she says quietly so Dennet won’t hear. Shadow lowers his head, presumably sniffing for another apple, but doesn’t pull away when the Inquisitor strokes his muzzle. 

“He’s handsome,” she smiles, combing her fingers through Shadow’s mane. “His hair is the same color as yours.”

Blackwall draws in a sharp breath to steel his resolve. It had been like this, this flirtatious back-and-forth, since the moment she’d found him in the forest a few short months ago. Blackwall had been keeping her at arms length, his own craven need for self-preservation outweighing his desires. The Inquisitor, respectful of his boundaries, was keeping her distance as well. But, there was no denying that the pair were fighting a losing battle. There was a noticeable shift in the air when they were in close proximity. Lingering gazes from across a room, loaded pauses between lulls in conversation. They seemed to naturally drift into one another’s orbit, often falling into step beside each other, while their friends walked behind them, exchanging whispers and giggles.

“I need to practice riding,” she says abruptly.

“Excuse me?” Blackall responds, his face growing warm.

“Riding horses,” she clarifies, pursing her lips to restrain a grin. “It’s not something I have much experience with. No need for warhorses in the Carta.”

“Right.” Blackwall clears his throat. 

It was true, the Inquisitor is skilled at many things, but not horseback riding. It is simple enough to sit upon a horse’s back, reins in hand. But if the rider doesn’t have practice, it is easy to fall off. It was another new thing the Inquisitor had to learn. The few horses they did have back at Haven were very large, and the Inquisitor struggled to climb onto their backs. The saddles were too large as well, and the stirrups too long. Blackwall had felt guilty that there were not better accommodations for her, but did fashion a taller step stool so mounting the horses would at least be easier, and cut more notches into the stirrup straps so they could be shortened. Once she was in the saddle, and the horse was moving, she bounced too much in the seat, and let her feet dangle in the stirrups. He worried she would fall if the horse went too fast, or got spooked.

“I’d be happy to give you some advice, my Lady. When you have the time.”

“Well, I have time right now. If you aren’t busy,” she says, looking at him expectedly. Blackwall hesitates for a moment, then agrees. Her eyes beam with excitement as she turns to Dennet, asking his permission to ready a horse.

“Of course, Inquisition,” says the horsemaster. “Would you like some help?”

“No, thank you. Warden Blackwall will help me.”

“As you like,” Dennet responds, unhitching the mare from the post. “Most of the tack is kept in the armory for now, but there is some in the barn.”

“I know where it is, my Lady,” Blackwall assures her. “Do you want to take a look at the stock? We’ve got more horses than we did at Haven.”

“I pick Shadow,” she says with little hesitation. “He doesn’t look too tall, I don’t think.”

“Should do just fine. I’ll get him tied out for you, Inquisitor.”

“I can do some things for myself, dear Warden. You can get the tack, I’ll get the horse.” The Inquisitor steps forward and grabs the lead rope hanging from the stall door.

Blackwall nods, then turns and walks into the barn. Half a dozen saddles are mounted on wooden brackets secured to the wall, with accompanying bridles, girths, and stirrups hanging on hooks below them. The saddle blankets are stacked in a neat pile atop an old wooden crate. Blackwall had built and organized it all prior to Dennet’s arrival.

He contemplates which saddle to choose for a moment, then settles on one crafted from druffalo hide. It was relatively small, maybe outfitted for an elf, but it would work for their lesson. There is a pair of stirrups already attached, and he hopes they won't be too long for the Inquisitor. He sets the saddle on his forearm, then picks up the matching bridle and a girth. Before leaving the barn, he grabs a saddle blanket from atop the pile.

“The stirrups may be long, we’ll have to adjust them,” Blackwall says to the Inquisitor, the metal buckles and bit of the bridle clinking as he moves. Blackwall sets the tack down on a wooden sawhorse stationed next to the hitching post. The Inquisitor had successfully walked Shadow out of his stall, without any bites, and secured him to the post with a quick knot. Shadow’s pelt is a bold black, shimmering in the sunlight like polished obsidian. He is smaller in stature than some of Dennet’s other horses, but not quite short enough to be considered a pony. The spirited Shadow impatiently nibbles at the lead rope dangling from the post.

“We’ll check his hooves,” Blackwall says, running his hand along the horse’s leg. Shadow shows some resistance, but lifts his foot when Blackwall gives his ankle a squeeze.

“Clean as a whistle.” Dennet had already picked his hooves that morning. Shadow stamps his foot back down, and Blackwall gives his shoulder a reassuring pat. The Inquisitor, ever prepared, pulls up a step stool, and tosses the saddle blanket over Shadow’s back.

“Do the Wardens keep many horses?” She asks, pulling the blanket to Shadow’s withers.

Blackwall stiffens at the question. Did they? Surely, the Wardens had stables at their keeps. How else would they travel long distances? The Orlesians had a considerable number of horses, many of Thedas’s finest breeds, in fact. Dennet’s Fereldan horses were of a formidable and healthy stock, of that there was no doubt, but Orlais’ horses had been carefully bred through the ages. The lineages of their animals were of utmost importance, much like their nobility. Coursers and Imperial Warmbloods were the most highly prized of them, and were abundant amongst Captains and Chevaliers alike. It wasn’t likely that these breeds were used by the Wardens, unless the Wardens had recently come into a fortune of wealth. 

“They do,” he says, picking up the saddle from the sawhorse and placing it on Shadow’s back. “None to rival Master Dennet’s. I’ve been around horses most of my life, though. Before the Wardens.”

The Inquisitor, with the girth slung over her shoulder, lifts the saddle flap, and buckles one end of the girth to the saddle.

“When did you learn to ride?”

Another harmless question, a natural path to take in the conversation. Truthfully, Blackwall can’t exactly remember his first time on horseback, or when he started to develop his skill. A faint memory starts to come to him, clawing its way out of his heart. Their family horse, a sweet-natured bay, trotting across a flower-pocked field, to he and his sister, Liddy. Holding out handfuls of hay to a velvet soft muzzle. Filling the trough with buckets, splashing water over their feet, soaking their shoes and socks.

“Just, when I was growing up. I’ve always been fond of them,” he says, swallowing the growing ache in his throat. He tightens the girth around Shadow’s middle and cinches it. Shadow responds with a snort.

“You said you won the Tourney. So you must be pretty skilled on horseback.”

“That was a lifetime ago, feels like. I’m out of practice now.”

“Don’t be so modest, Blackwall. That is quite a feat.”

“I would be no match for the professionals these days.”

“No match for a professional like the famous Lady Chastaine?” Her eyes are looking at the stirrup strap she is pulling taut, but a coy smile passes her lips. “You did say her jousting technique was, what was it- magnificent?”

“Do I detect a hint of jealousy, Inquisitor?” Blackwall teases, shortening the other stirrup on his side.

“No,” she grins, stepping down from the stool. “Lady Chaistaine would be jealous of me.”

They are nearly ready to begin their lesson. Blackwall loops the bridle over Shadow’s ears, and surprisingly, the horse takes the bit in his mouth with little prompting. He fastens the bridle and unhitches Shadow from the post.

“Your steed, my Lady.” He sweeps his arm in a wide gesture, presenting the formidable mount to Lady Cadash.

The Inquisitor pulls the stool closer to Shadow’s flank, but Blackwall knows it isn’t tall enough just by looking at it. She tries to grip the saddle and pull herself up, but doesn’t quite have purchase on it, and slides back down. Shadow gives a heavy sigh and shakes his head.

“Not tall enough. You’re going to have to give me a boost, Blackwall,” she says, scooting the stool away with her foot. 

Blackwall hopes the Inquisitor won’t notice the blush creeping from his ears to his cheeks as he lowers his stance, and braces his cupped hands on his inner thigh. The Inquisitor steps into his palms, one hand gripping his shoulder, and the other on the saddle. With Blackwall supporting her foot, she heaves herself up. He tries to keep his gaze to the ground, and not take the opportunity to admire her figure as she climbs onto the horse’s back. His eyes, however, do not cooperate, wandering along the shape of her thighs, and lingering a moment too long on her round bottom.

“Enjoying the view, Blackwall?” Lady Cadash asks, swinging one leg over Shadow’s side. There is a delighted glint in her eye. How very little escapes her notice, he thinks. His face grows hot now, and is undeniably red. She lets out a barking laugh, her smile wide and radiant. Blackwall stands to his feet and glances over his shoulder. Dennet is behind them, gathering water from the well, chuckling to himself and shaking his head. 

“I’m only messing with you, Warden. Let’s ride.” The Inquisitor slips her feet into the stirrups and takes the reins in her hands. Blackwall, thankful she has averted her attention back to the horse, clears his throat and steps forward towards Shadow’s flank. Shadow shifts his weight and paws a hoof on the ground, eager to get a move on.

“Your stirrups are a bit long, but they’ll do. First, your heels need to be pointing towards the ground when your feet are in the stirrups. Keeps you from slipping,” Blackwall says. The Inquisitor stretches her ankle downward so the toe of her boot is pointing towards the sky.

“Like this?”

“Just like that. And you need to take in the reins a bit, so you have better control.” She fumbles with the reins, her fingers not used to gripping them yet. Blackwall approaches, settling his hands over hers, and moves their fingers, in unison, down the leather reins. 

“Now, straighten your back.” Blackwall gently places a hand to her lower back, pressing his fingertips into the fabric of her coat. The Inquisitor sits up, pulling her shoulders back.

“I feel like a fancy noble,” she jokes, flipping her hair over her shoulder. “Very proper-like.” 

“You’re ready, Inquisitor. Walk on,” Blackwall says, stepping out of the horse’s way.

She clicks her tongue and presses her heels into Shadow’s flank, urging him forward. Shadow, with Lady Cadash astride, falls into a rhythm, walking a circle around Blackwall as he keeps watch.

“What was the Tourney like, Blackwall?” She asks him, stretching her legs in the stirrups.

“It’s exciting, I suppose,” he responds dryly. 

“You suppose? You charge at another man in knight’s armor on horseback with a huge pole under your arm and you ‘suppose’ it’s exciting?”

Blackwall shifts his weight back on his heels and crosses his arms to his chest, an unease settling into his stomach like a sinking stone. He abides by an unspoken rule; to speak about himself as little as possible. That part of his life, winning the melee at the Tourney, was true, though the victory had been claimed under a different name. By a selfish, young braggart that he hardly recognizes in the mirror these days. If he were to tell her about one part of himself, what other, more damning details may come tumbling from his lips? 

“It’s been a long time, Inquisitor. I was a young man last I attended the Tourney.”

“And I’m sure you were a strapping lad, with fair maidens swooning at your very presence-”

“I had other priorities at the time.”

“C’mon, Blackwall. It wasn’t that long ago. I’ve never been, and Maker knows if I’ll ever get to, at this rate. Just tell me about it, please?” She gazes at him softly and tilts her head, her wavy locks falling over her collarbone.

At least I don’t have to spin a story, he thinks. The least he could do is allow her some of his truths, so long as he is careful.

“It is - very exciting,” he relents. “Spectators come from all over Thedas. Well, nobility and merchants, mostly. Lots of gowns and tailored silks. And they’re all drunk.”

“Well, that part doesn’t sound all that fun,” she interjects, sneering at the thought. “The nobles, I mean. Not the drinking.”

“It’s showy, but it’s tradition to us Free Marchers. Everyone puts aside their differences for a day to celebrate who we are. And the jousting, of course, is what they all gather for. That’s the exciting bit. Hearing the crowd cheer as your horse charges down the list - there’s nothing quite like it. Then, when your lance makes contact, and the sorry bastard at the end of it topples into the sand, they all get to their feet. All of them, yelling as loud as they can. It sounds like one mighty roar.”

“I would like to go sometime,” she suggests, adjusting the reins in her hands. “Y’know, if the world ever stops falling apart.”

He exhales, the memory of his win at the Tourney dissipating with the breath leaving his lungs. If he didn’t have a facade to maintain, he would offer to take her. Lady Cadash would love the Tourney, despite the presence of drunk nobles. It could be a lovely trip for the both of them to take together. But Blackwall isn’t going to make any promises to his dear Inquisitor, because he knows he will not be able to keep them.

“Your form is looking better,” he says, putting the focus back on their lesson. “Get him to trot, and remember to keep your heels down.”

With another tap of the Inquisitor’s heels, Shadow moves into a smooth trot, continuing to circle Blackwall. Shadow evidently begins to grow bored of circles after a few minutes, and veers off towards the well, his eyes on the patches of grass growing around it. The Inquisitor frowns, pulling back on the reins to halt him. She is looking down at the reins in her hands, trying to pull Shadow’s head to the left.

“Look up at where you want to go. Your hands, and the reins, will follow,” Blackwall says reassuringly, noticing her brow furrowed in frustration.

“C’mon, Shadow. Walk on,” The Inquisitor commands, looking at Blackwall as she pulls the rein. Shadow obeys, albeit with a low nicker. She taps her heels to his flank, urging him into a trot, and steers him back into a circle. 

“A bit headstrong, isn’t he? Wants to go his own way,” she says, patting Shadow’s neck.

“Like someone else I know,” Blackwall whispers softly to himself. 

Shadow and the Inquisitor continue in their circle around him. The Inquisitor is keeping her eyes up now, and trusting her hands to steer the horse in the right direction. She practices turning, guiding Shadow into the turns with ease and a steady hand. Her confidence on horseback is growing, as Blackwall had expected. The Inquisitor rarely passes on an opportunity to learn something new. She is sharp, and a fast learner, quickly becoming adept at whatever she sets her mind to. Blackwall had stood behind many different leaders prior to joining the Inquisition, and he knows she will become the best of them, in due time.

“Can we go faster?” She asks eagerly. “I can run him down the straight-away.”

“Alright, Inquisitor,” Blackwall replies with a raised brow. “Canter down to the tents, then back to me. Be careful-“

Before Blackwall finishes his sentence, the Inquisitor turns Shadow to face the tented barracks, and nudges Shadow’s flanks with her heels. Shadow dances into a canter, excited to finally be moving at a quicker pace. The horse and his rider run down the straight-away, passing the merchants who look on in amusement. The Inquisition scouts at the tents watch with grins on their faces as the black horse barrels towards them. The Inquisitor smoothly turns Shadow away from the tents and spectating scouts, coming back around to the stables. 

Blackwall feels his jaw clench when Shadow breaks into a full gallop. Whether it was the horse’s doing, or the Inquisitor’s, he couldn’t tell. They sail down the dirt path, Shadow’s hooves kicking up dust as they beat the ground. The Inquisitor’s face is illuminated by a wide, child-like smile, her hair whipping behind her. She lets out a whooping shout as they zoom by the merchant stalls. The Inquisition scouts at the tents respond with encouraging cheers. The horse is coming up on the stables quickly, with no sign of slowing down.

“Inquisitor, pull back!” Blackwall shouts.

The Inquisitor shifts her weight back in the saddle and pulls the reins to her hips to slow Shadow. Shadow responds to her hands, coming abruptly to a stop. Blackwall watches with horror as the Inquisitor pitches forward, a look of surprise twisting her face. Shadow braces his front legs in the dirt, trying to keep his rider in the seat, but to no avail. The Inquisitor tumbles from the saddle, yelling obscenities as she falls, and lands hard in the dirt below. The on-looking merchants and scouts quickly turn their backs to stifle their laughter. 

Blackwall runs to her side and kneels down beside her, looking her over for any signs of injury. No broken bones, or a cracked skull, luckily. Just a bruised ego.

“Are you alright, my Lady?”

“I’m fine. I think I’ll just stay here in the dirt though,” she sighs. She shakes her hair out of her eyes, revealing her flushed cheeks. Shadow lowers his head and nuzzles her shoulder. 

“Here,” Blackwall holds out his hand to her. She grabs it and pulls herself to her feet. Her fingers quickly comb her hair back behind her ears. She spins on her heel to face her audience of merchants and scouts, and gives them a deep bow. She is met with laughter and more cheering.

“You aren’t hurt, are you?”

“I promise I’m fine. I’ll just have some bruises later. Nothing I can’t handle.” The Inquisitor looks down and examines the coat of dirt on her legs. “I guess I’ll need a change of clothes too.”

Shadow had patiently waited for his unseated rider to get to her feet, and the Inquisitor rewards him with a good scratch behind the ears. 

“Now, that was fun! Let’s do this again sometime, Shadow.” She giggles as Shadow leans his head into her scratching.

“Without the fall next time, my Lady.”

“Yeah, I could do without that,” she says with a breathy laugh. “Let’s get him back in the stables.”

Blackwall takes the reins in his hand, leading Shadow back to the hitching post. Lady Cadash walks beside him, her face still pink from the public embarrassment.

“Thank you for being my teacher, Blackwall. I’ll work on being a better student. I know I’m a bit, well-”

“Headstrong?” Blackwall finishes her thought.

“Over-confident,” she concedes. “Let’s go with that.”

“As you wish, my Lady.”

Blackwall had just hitched Shadow to the post when an Inquisition messenger interrupts. Leliana wishes to speak with the Herald, and it is most urgent. Lady Cadash sighs, a realization that her fun for the day had come to an end, and informs the messenger that she will first have to change out of her dirty clothes before meeting with Lady Nightingale. The messenger nods, crosses her fist to her chest, and flits away to some other order of business.

“I’m sorry, Blackwall. I have to go. Will you get Shadow back into his stall for me, please?”

“Of course, Inquisitor. You did well today. You’ll be a skilled rider in no time.”

“Blackwall-” She pauses and steps forward, closing the space between them. Her gaze softens as she searches for her next words. “You didn’t have to make time for me today, but you did. You always help me when I need it. So, thank you. I’m very lucky to call you my friend.” 

“I-” Blackwall stammers, caught off guard by her sincere words, without a hint of teasing or sarcasm to be detected. “You’re welcome, my Lady.”

“And before I go,” she says, turning her eyes back down to her dirty trousers. “We are getting together at the Herald’s Rest tonight. Sera, Dorian, Bull, the Chargers. I think Varric said he’d join us too. Anyway, you should come. If you’re up for it.”

“Sure, my Lady. I’ll come by for a couple of drinks.”

“Great. I’ll see you then, Warden,” she smiles at him once more, then turns and sprints away to attend to her inquisitorial duties. Blackwall watches as she takes off, with reddish-brown dirt all down her backside and legs, until she rounds the corner and disappears. He shakes his head and allows himself an unrestrained smile, just for a moment, until he composes himself again. 

It feels odd, he is ashamed to admit, to let himself be happy. It was not something he was well-acquainted with. Young Thom Rainier had believed the win at the Tourney to be his greatest happiness. But he had been a prideful, hard-headed idiot, who would not have won at all had it not been for an old chevalier’s aid. The same chevalier had seen greatness in him, offered to mentor him, and Thom had refused. Every decision he had made since then had been proof that the chevalier was wrong. That was, until he decided to join the Inquisition, which would not make him great, but was the right choice. And yet, the Inquisitor sees something in him. Maker knows what.

Blackwall shakes his head once again, this time to stop his thoughts from wandering. His hands had been mindlessly removing the tack from the horse, going through the motions while his mind was elsewhere. Blackwall throws the blanket, bridle, and girth over the saddle, then scoops the tack onto his forearm and returns each piece to its proper place in the barn. 

Before being unhitched from his post, Shadow is brushed and given more scratches behind the ears. Blackwall leads the horse back into his stall, where Shadow immediately begins gulping water from a bucket secured to the wall. Blackwall returns to his workbench, and picks up the apple he had saved for himself. He gives the apple to Shadow, who is very content with this new-found attention. 

With a final pat on the neck, Blackwall leaves Shadow to happily crunch away at the treat. He tries to turn his attention to some other duty, maybe fixing something, or helping Dennet like he promised earlier. He decides against approaching Dennet for the moment. He needs a few minutes to himself, to recover some dignity and get his mind straight. 

Blackwall opts to make a fire, a simple task that will keep his hands busy. There is a fire pit in the barn, an addition also built by Blackwall, to warm himself when the cold nights crept in and he didn’t feel like trudging back to his cramped quarters. For a man traveling alone, building a fire quickly had been a necessity, but now, with Skyhold’s mages able to light a lamp with a snap of their fingers, Blackwall had missed the ritual of it.

Blackwall scrapes the blade of his pocket knife rhythmically along the flint rock, flicking sparks into the tinder of hay and dried bark he has nested in the center of the pit. A spark catches in the tinder, and he gently blows on it to coax a flame, but it fizzles out instead. He mutters a curse, then sits himself back on his knees and begins striking his blade to the flint rock again. 

“You want me to grab Dorian for that?” A deep voice says from behind him. He turns his head to see The Iron Bull, standing a few feet away and eating from a towering plate of food. How someone so large could move so silently, Blackwall would never know. The hulking Qunari is dirty and scratched, presumably from sparring, and has shiny, purple ribbons tied to each of his horns.

“I’ll get it lit, eventually,” Blackwall mumbles as he gets to his feet.

“Let me know if you change your mind,” Bull says through a mouthful of bread.

“Why do you have ribbons, Iron Bull?”

“Well, one, I think I look good in them. And two, it's the Boss’s name day.”

“Maker’s balls,” Blackwall groans, rubbing his fingertips on his brow. He had no idea. The Inquisitor had not mentioned it all morning. 

“Ah, you didn’t know. Nothing to worry about. The Boss hasn’t told any of her advisors. Says she doesn’t want Josephine throwing her any big parties. We’ll be down at the tavern later to celebrate.”

“The Inquisitor invited me.”

“Good! You’re coming then, right?” Bull pops a couple of plump berries in his mouth and chews.

“Yes, I’ll be there. Do you think the Inquisitor is expecting any gifts?”

“Look, she’s not expecting anyone to get her anything. I think your company would be the greatest gift you could give her. Among other things.” Bull raises an eyebrow and glances down at Blackwall’s trousers. Blackwall shoots Bull a narrowed glance.

“C’mon, I’m only teasing!” The Iron Bull lets out his bellowing laugh. “But seriously, the Boss does like you. Talks about you all the time. I think she wants to have a roll in the hay, if you catch my drift.”

Maker help me, Blackwall thinks, his cheeks growing flush for the hundredth time that day. He shakes his head, and opens his mouth to retort, but no clever words come out. He swallows and gives a Bull a dry, nervous laugh. 

“Anyway, I’ll see you later, Blackwall. Just come by the tavern after dark. We’ll be there.” Bull slaps him firmly on the shoulder before turning to leave, cramming more food into his mouth as he walks away.

Blackwall kneels back down at the fire pit, striking the flint rock with a swift flick of his wrist, throwing a stream of sparks into the tinder. It catches this time, and Blackwall is able to get a flame burning. He feeds it sticks, letting it grow stronger for a few minutes, before adding slivered logs to sustain the fire. The sweet smell of burning lumber begins to fill the air, and Blackwall takes in a deep breath of it. He pulls a wooden crate next to the fire, and settles down to warm himself.

He wants to put his thoughts to good use, maybe make a list of tasks he needs to do today. Work on the wooden griffon he has began carving, perhaps. But his thoughts only want to reach for the Herald’s Rest, where he will be when night falls, with the Inquisitor. She will be drinking ale, and smiling her irresistible, beautiful smile. After a few pints, she’ll sing along with the bard in a slightly slurred but soothing voice. He doesn’t permit himself to set any expectations for the evening, but he imagines how it might feel it might feel to hold her in his arms, to dance with her in the warm glow of the tavern light, or to kiss her soft lips. 

His cheeks are flush again, but he could blame it on the heat from the fire. Thoughts of her are comforting. He feels at ease, his troubled mind becoming calm, even if it is only for a short few moments. 

“Warden Blackwall?”

Hearing the name is jarring, and breaks him from his daydreaming. He glances over his shoulder and sees Dennet’s face peering through the open doorway.

“Could you lend a hand? I need some help with a few things.”

“Of course, Master Dennet.” Blackwall smiles at the horsemaster and stands to his feet. “I’ll be right out.”

Blackwall looks into the swaying flames of the fire once more, the unfamiliar flutter of excitement in his stomach. Nagging guilt nips at his mind, hungry for punishment and never for acceptance. He will ignore it for now, put it aside, and look forward to an evening at the tavern to celebrate his dear friend, and to be nothing more than an ordinary man enjoying her company.


End file.
